The other night, I was standing and eating Cap’n Crunch. I have some tarot cards on top of the bookcase and sometimes I stand there and pull one card out and announce it’s the day’s theme or something. I love the images and reading into them, and they might be reading me back.

I received the queen of pentacles, or, as it’s called in my splendid weirdo feminist witch deck, the priestess of discs. I imagine a glorious topless pothead with a frisbee, for sure my alter ego.

The book I have that explains the art in the cards pointed out that this lady in this card is the mistress of craft, the money queen, an earth goddess of compassion. “She respects her body as a vehicle,” book whispered.

Dis lady is sitting in front of a marijuana bush with a fucking parrot in it, dis lady got a baby just sitting on the ground. She takes care of her body– I’m laughing with a sloppy mouth full of Cap’n Corn — till I read that she is called Corn Mother. You know how it goes with da cards.

The cards don’t want to be mocked. They know that when it comes to trusting them, I’m half a single raised eyebrow and half a stoned parrot in a mystical tree.

But let’s be for real here. The highest truth is in play. That’s why all my characters tend to cry and fart in equal measure. AND why I eat Cap’n Crontz when I’m contemplating the void. You can roll around on the floor dying all you want, but you add a pair of rollerblades, and baby, you’ve got a stew going!